


found you in the bottom of my glass (and you’re looking lost)

by honeykaspbrak



Category: IT (2017), IT (Stephen King)
Genre: And obviously of sex, Bevchie but not really, Bill is such a good friend, Depression, Drinking, Eddie is going through it, Eddie is the gay light of my life, Feelings, M/M, Non-con sex but not heavily described at all, Queer Characters, Reddie, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Smut, Super aged up characters, Talking, There's talk of mental health issues, Theyre all Sad :((, and Richie duh, bisexual Bev and Bill, focuses on friendships too cause that shit is important, idk how to tag, like seniors in college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:12:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeykaspbrak/pseuds/honeykaspbrak
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is a sex worker. He doesn’t need to be saved.Richie Tozier is a bartender. He knows that.





	1. Eddie

It’s so cold here, and that’s all that’s in Eddie’s head. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but sometime in the ten minutes since he’d gotten out of his car on weak legs and leaned against the hood, the wind had picked up. It whistles past his ears and through his hair, stings where it abrades his skin. He tugs his sweater (it’s thin, stupidly thin for a December night, but he chose it anyway because it’s his favorite- loosely knit and patterned with thick stripes) tighter around himself, shifts in his leggings and canvas shoes. He wants to get back in the car and hold his hands over the weak radiator until they thaw out, but he has to be on the lookout for his client. (5’9, blonde hair, leather jacket, was the information Eddie had gotten over the phone. He scans the parking lot but sees no one.) Eddie gazes up at the stucco side of the motel, then higher, to the inky sky. The air is too polluted here for the stars to be clear, but he catches a few twinkling through the thready clouds. 

It’s times like now where he wishes he smoked. Just to have something to do with his hands, to be able to feel the warmth of the lighter for a few seconds at least. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t have the lungs for it. 

Lots of his clients do, though. He can smell smoke on their clothes, in the crooks of their necks, more often than not. Tastes it if he kisses them. Eddie doesn’t mind the taste. 

“Oh, hey- hi. Eddie, right?” The voice is somehow both high and raspy, and is coming from behind Eddie. He turns and meets the eyes of the blonde-haired, leather-jacket-wearing client, who, ha, is holding a burning cigarette between two fingers of his right hand. Eddie smiles at him, nods. This is always the worst part. Awkward. 

“That’s me.”

“I’m, uh, Thomas.” He’s nervous, that much is obvious. Eddie doesn’t get so nervous anymore, can tamp down his anxiety in the same way you can ignore the first twinges of hunger in your stomach. But it can still be relieving to have a client who’s new at this, who fumbles. Takes some of the pressure off. 

“Hi, Thomas.” Eddie gives him a sweet smile, thinking back to the post it note he has shoved up on his mirror inside the sun visor of his car. It reads “be flirty!! be nice!” because Eddie is the sort of asshole who has to remind himself of those things. He was looking at the note just fifteen minutes ago as he applied lip gloss in the mirror. Be flirty. Eddie bites his bottom lip and bats his eyelashes a little (he isn’t above that) at the stammering Thomas. “Shall we?” He gestures behind them to the motel. 

“O-okay.” Thomas steps up next to Eddie, and they start walking towards the lit-up lobby. Thomas shoves his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t know what else to do with them. “I- sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

“I can tell.” Eddie says, in a gentle way that he hopes doesn’t sound mean. He smiles over at Thomas (over and up, more accurately- Eddie stands a good four inches below him). “It’s okay to be nervous.” 

“Do you...” Thomas trails off, and Eddie thinks he knows where the question will go. It almost always works out one of two ways: “Do you like doing this?” or “Do you eat ass?”. He guesses that it’ll be the first one this time, and sure enough, Thomas works up to asking that as Eddie pushes through the door. 

“Yeah,” Eddie answers truthfully enough, “it’s good work.” He gives the number of the room Thomas payed for to the receptionist behind the counter, and takes the keycard from her with a smile. Thomas is bright red beside him, like he thinks she and the whole world know what they’re heading to floor three, room 108 to do. Eddie puts a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him as they climb onto the elevator. 

Inside the elevator, Thomas watches the ceiling and Eddie looks at the side of his face. 

“So,” he says “you lived in New York long?” Thomas glances at him like he sort of can’t believe he’s making casual conversation. It doesn’t seem as strange once you’ve been doing this for a year, Eddie thinks. Almost nothing seems strange. 

“Yeah,” Thomas replies, hesitantly, “born and raised. You?”

“I was born in Maine. Lived there as a kid.” Eddie says as the elevator dings for their floor. Thomas holds the door as Eddie gets off. Wow, a gentleman. 

“So you’ve stayed close too.” Thomas says, any nervousness that calmed on the elevator ride jumping back into his voice as they step into the hall. Eddie scans the rooms they pass for the numbers. 120, 112, there they go- 108. He slides the key into the slot and hears the click of the lock disengaging. 

The room bears a resemblance to almost every one he’s been in, with ugly carpeting and a full-sized bed shoved against a wall, a TV on a dresser across from it. He reaches around Thomas to slide the bolt lock back into place, then says “ready?” and pushes him into the wall. 

Eddie Kaspbrak doesn’t like to waste time. 

 

When it’s over, Eddie picks up his sweater from the floor and leaves, re-pocketing the leftover condoms on his way out the door. Thomas had looked so bashful as he paid him, as lots of them do. Eddie tucked the cash in his waistband and spared a kiss to Thomas’s still-bare shoulder. He’d been sweet. Eddie is back in the parking lot a bit over an hour after he left it, his wallet two hundred dollars heavier. 

He climbs into his car, only the littlest bit sore, and hunches over the radiator until it comes on properly. He adjusts the radio, breathes out a sigh through his nose, and drives away with the motel and blonde-haired Thomas at his back. 

—

“Listen.” Eddie says, swirling his straw in his gin-and-tonic. “Bill, I love you, but that’s bullshit.” Bill, Eddie’s roommate, bartender, and favorite person easy, raises his eyebrows in mock-offense. 

“Okay, wait, why is Bill bullshit?” It’s Mike, emerging from the kitchen with a plate of crackers and cheese. He lives in the apartment across the hall, and a friendship was forged easily between the three after Mike came over one night to make a noise complaint prompted by an overzealous game of Mario Kart blasting from Bill and Eddie’s room. 

“Bill isn’t bullshit, but this story of his about last night is.” Eddie says, mouth full of wheat thins. 

“Oh shit, is he telling you about that girl he apparently had over while you were working?” Bill lifts his hands in a “don’t shoot” motion, mouth gaping indignantly. Eddie and Mike are snorting with laughter, Eddie with a spray of crumbs down the front of his t-shirt (actually, Bill’s t-shirt). 

“I did t-too have a girl over!” Bill’s stutter doesn’t rear it’s head much anymore, but he’s flustered now. 

“Big Bill, these walls are like tissue paper. I would’ve heard.” Mike says, ducking out of the way of Bill’s wheat-thin assault. 

“Glad to know you’re listening to that, p-perv.” Bill mutters, but he’s grinning now, too. Eddie doesn’t have a chance to dig at him any more for making up a lay, because there’s a smattering of knocks on the door. 

“It’s open!” Mike yells, and the little apartment is suddenly filled with voices, laughter overlapping. 

“Bev!” Eddie calls, scrambling off his spot on the couch, drink still in hand, to meet her in a hug at the doorway of the living room. She’s wearing a tight, pretty dress, all covered in sequins, and holding a still-to-be-lit cigarette between her teeth. “Shit, love, are we partying tonight?” 

“You are the party, dear Eddie.” She says, leaning in to peck his cheek. Eddie knows that if he swung for that, he would, without a doubt, be head-over-heels in love with Beverly. It’s hard not to feel that way about Bev, who seems to carry a sliver of the sun around in her pocket. She and Eddie met the first week of college, in a math course that they both dropped before the semester was through. Behind her are Stan and Ben, both of who began as friends of Bill’s from school but easily interspersed themselves into the group in the way that honey melts into tea. Eddie hugs them too, feeling just a little buzzed and a lot happy. He used part of the two hundred from Thomas last night to buy a bottle of vodka, leagues better than what they’re used to drinking, and he can feel the difference in his belly. 

He pulls the group into the living room, and they take up the chairs and couch like they’re made to be sitting there. It makes Eddie feel warm, though maybe that’s the alcohol. Content. 

 

The content wasn’t built to last, as much as Eddie longs for it to. He thinks maybe he isn’t built to be content. That maybe some people are just not meant for it, not meant to feel good. 

Bill is the one that notices him slip, when he’s had one too many drinks. 

“Eddie.” He says, under his breath. “Let’s take a walk.” Eddie could cry, as grateful for Big Bill as he is. They slip out the door without much interference from their friends and roam the halls like they used to do with flash cards in their hands. 

“What’s w-wrong, Eddie?” Eddie just shrugs, suddenly acutely aware that he feels like he’s collapsing from the inside out. 

“I don’t know. I had a client last night.” Bill stops walking, immediately, and catches Eddie by the wrist. His skin is paler than Eddie’s, his hand veiny. 

“Shit. Did he- were you- was it b-bad?” The “bad” suggests so much that Eddie thinks he might start to cry.

“No, no, it was... fine, you know, he was shy, and nothing bad happened.” Bill’s brows furrow, and Eddie can see him working for an answer to why Eddie suddenly put up stone walls that seem more like fortresses, right in the middle of their cocktail party. Eddie is ashamed. He’s ashamed of having to be walked out, like a toddler having a tantrum in a grocery store. 

“You weren’t...” Eddie watches as Bill searches for the right word. “V-Vi-Violated?” Eddie shakes his head, tears from exhaustion and alcohol and shame finally spilling heavy down his cheeks. He’s angry at himself for feeling that shame, for the innate sense of dirtiness that he feels clings to his skin and clothes. He’s angry at his tears, and that drives them onward, harder. Bill holds him, in the dimly lit hallway. Holds him and doesn’t let go. 

—

Eddie wakes up the next morning tucked into Bill’s bed. There’s an unspoken agreement between them- they do this whenever one is having a rough night. Always have. Bill’s bony hip is jutting into Eddie’s side, his arm tossed over his head. Eddie feels a little swell of affection for him that’s quickly tapped down by the nausea building in his stomach. Ah, fuck. 

Eddie stumbles into the bathroom and vomits vodka into the toilet gracelessly. He flushes once, and then again, then returns to Bill’s bed with a sour mouth and scoots into his side. Bill, half-asleep still, wraps an arm around Eddie. He falls back into sleep, the restless, dreamless kind. 

When he wakes again, his head is pounding dully with a hangover but his stomach no longer threatens to empty itself. He just feels worn down, down all the way to the bone. Bill isn’t in bed anymore, and Eddie can tell by the way the winter sun comes through the curtains that it’s already midday. 

His memories of last night are foggy. He remembers crying. He remembers Bill leading him back into the apartment, sending their friends out with just a solemn look, before bringing Eddie to bed and stroking his hair until he succumbed to sleep. 

Eddie reaches a hand out to grope for his phone on the bedside table. The case broke a few months ago, and he can’t be bothered to buy a new one. It’s held weakly together with a crisscross of scotch tape, which Eddie thinks is a pretty fitting metaphor for everything in his life right now. He clicks the phone open and is greeted with a reminder, all in caps. 

CLIENT TONIGHT !!! OAK GROVES MOTEL

Ah, shit. He’d forgotten. And, god, all he wants to do is sleep. Eddie puts his head down and weeps into the pillow until he forgets what it feels like to not breathe through tears.


	2. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two, or: Eddie’s emotions are terribly inconsistent and it worries Bill so much.

It’s a bad night. They come with the territory, Eddie knows that, but it’s bad, bad. The man’s breath smells stale, like something dead, and Eddie can’t get out of his own head as he’s bent over the foot of the shitty motel bed. (Normally, when it isn’t good, he can separate himself. He can float out of his body and above and away. Not tonight.) Afterwards, he offers Eddie a line of coke. Eddie shakes his head, feeling his chest cave in, and practically runs to his car with the money clutched in his fist and awful hot tears on his face. He has to pull the car over somewhere on the freeway and call Bill and be talked down from a full-blown panic attack on the side of the road. When he finally makes it home, red-eyed and shaking, Bill calls the numbers of every client for the next week and cancels them. Eddie cries on the couch, cries for how grateful he is, and for how damn tired. 

Bill pleads with him, not for the first time, to quit. To do something else, get another job, before he’s arrested or worse. He lets up when Eddie’s tears come harder and harder. He thinks Eddie doesn’t hear him on the phone, talking to Bev in a hushed, frantic voice that’s thick with a stutter. 

He sleeps in Bill’s bed again, second time in a row. It’s not a good night. 

—

Eddie comes to feeling dirty from the inside out. He’s spent the last year telling anyone who will listen that there’s nothing shameful or unclean about sex work, but right now he’s crawling so thickly with both of those feelings that his lungs seems crushed down. He finds himself in the bathroom, feet against the cold tile of the floor (it’s blue and white hexagons, alternating, and he knows Bill used to sit with his back against the tub and count the rows when he was panicking), filling the bathtub with almost scalding water. It’ll use up their hot water for the day, maybe for two, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

As the water rushes and tumbles into the smooth porcelain of the tub, crashing like miniature waves, Eddie undresses in the mirror. He pulls his t-shirt, which is so old that the graphics on the front have worn away to almost nothing, over his head from the back and drops it in a pile on the floor. His chest, in the mirror, looks so skinny. There’s a hickey on it, up and to the left of his right nipple. He doesn’t remember being given it. He outlines it with his pointer finger, feeling his throat go thick. He remembers something Stan said to him when he told him what he was planning to do for money, when he was designing the ad on his laptop. There was no judgement in Stan’s voice, but it’s stuck with Eddie. 

“You’re okay having sex with someone who doesn’t love you?” Eddie had grinned and shoved at Stan’s shoulder. 

“That’s the point! There’s no emotional baggage, and you get paid for it! Where else could I be making two hundred easy in an hour?” Eddie had been fresh then, filled with the empowerment that he can still sometimes glean when he’s moving his hips under a stranger. Stan had shrugged, worrying at his lip. 

Eddie is doing the same now, biting his lower lip that’s so dry it could bleed if he smiles too wide. The problem isn’t sleeping with people who don’t love him, who don’t even know his last name. The problem is that Eddie can’t remember the last time he had sex with someone who knew him. Who cared. 

The heaters kick in with a clang and a rush of stale, warm air against Eddie’s calves, then, snapping him out of his thoughts. Bill must have turned up the thermostat in the living room. Eddie drops his hands from the hickey and shoves down his pajama pants and boxers. His legs are skinny, too. Freckled. There’s a scar above his left knee from falling down a set of stairs as a child. There’s a bruise on his right ankle from the coffee table, just last week. Eddie turns away from the mirror and steps into the tub. 

He stays in the water until his skin is pink and pruney. He washes himself so thoroughly with the clean-smelling bar of soap that his skin tingles. It helps. He feels like he’s stripping off the night, all the nights. He sets the soap down, looks at it, contemplating, then picks it up and washes everything again. 

It’s a Sunday. Bill is cooking something in the kitchen, and Eddie can smell whatever it is. Rich and sweet. It’s Sunday, and Eddie has two lectures tomorrow. He remembers Sunday being his least favorite day of the week as a child- a day you were meant to be able to enjoy but could feel a cloud hanging over, every minute. Because the next morning, it was back to getting up early and trudging to school and probably getting your books knocked from your hands by one of the middle-school assholes. Eddie doesn’t mind Sundays so much anymore, because he most always has the night off, and because his Monday classes are easy enough to get through. In fact, he thinks it’s usually a properly alright day. And Bill is cooking. 

Sometime in between when Eddie washed himself and got to contemplating about the days of the week, the water began to go from hot to warm to lukewarm enough that his skin that’s damp but not under the water chills in the air. Meaning it’s time to get out. He kicks the drain open with the side of his foot and stands, feeling the water run unpleasantly down his legs. 

He dries off and pulls his pajamas back on, toweling his dripping hair. When he opens the bathroom door, he’s met by music, something off the playlist that’s the only thing Bill plays, ever. Music and a smell he can place now, apples baking in sugar and cinnamon. 

“Big Bill!” Eddie is laughing, suddenly, and the noise feels foreign and incredible. Bill looks up, and his face cracks into a smile. Eddie loves him. Loves him more than he’s ever loved anyone, he thinks. 

“How’re you feeling?” Bill asks. Doesn’t stutter, Eddie notices. Eddie is glad he can answer him truthfully. 

“Alright. Better.” Eddie hugs him, then, hopes it shows Bill just how thankful he is for him. Bill squeezes him back. Eddie loves him. 

“Good. I was worried.” Eddie thinks Bill’s eyes look a little glassy when he pulls back, and that breaks his heart. 

“I’m... okay, Bill. I’m good.”

“Y-you weren’t last night.” The stutter, though it’s almost missable, makes it hard for Eddie to swallow for a moment. 

“But I am now.” 

“Eddie, I t-think it’s time for you to take a break.” 

“I am taking a break. This whole week.” Bill bends to check whatever is in the oven. Eddie doesn’t like how the air in the room has changed. 

“B-but... I don’t think this is what’s best for you anymore. You know?” Eddie’s emotions are stuck before getting to anger. He cant be angry at Bill, especially when he knows he’s only trying to look out for him. 

“I’m fine.” Eddie says, earnestly. “I’m making good money. And I like it, Bill. Most of the time I really do.” 

“What about clients like last night? Who offer you c-cocaine?” Bill opens the oven and Eddie can feel the dry heat of it on the side of his face. Bill pulls a pie out of the oven, a real pie with the crimping around the edges and golden fruit juice seeping from the top. It looks amazing. Eddie feels all the fight seep out of him as he gazes at that pie that his best friend made. For him. 

“They’re one in a thousand. Seriously.” That isn’t exactly true. Eddie’s been in that situation more than just the once. But he can’t have Bill worrying. Bill furrows his thick brows. “C’mon, Big Bill. I’m okay. It was just a rough night.” Eddie sounds like he’s trying to convince himself too. 

“But I t-think you’re-” Eddie can’t hear him say it. Not again. This conversation always ends in Eddie crying, sometimes in a yelling match so loud that Mike barrels across the hall and drags a hyperventilating Bill out of the apartment. Bill’s going to say “I think you’re depressed” and Eddie can’t listen to it. 

“Don’t.” Eddie cuts him off, and Bill’s brown eyes are wide and glossy. “Please, Bill.” He doesn’t finish the sentence. 

“O-okay. Okay.” Eddie is drained, his hair wet. 

“Can I try some of that pie?” He asks. Bill smiles, weakly. 

“Yeah. Of course, Eddie.” 

They eat pie (it’s incredible, of course) on the couch, watching a dumb made-for-TV Lifetime movie. Bill falls asleep two-thirds of the way through it, and Eddie takes the plate off his knee and eases him down until his head is in Eddie’s lap. It’s nice when he can take care of Big Bill for a change. 

Bev comes over around three, still worried by Bill’s call from last night. Eddie shushes her as she opens the door, motions to Bill still asleep in his lap. She sits on the floor next to Eddie’s knees and they talk in whispers, eating pie straight from the dish. 

“Listen, Eddie. Whatever the fuck this is,” Bev waves her hand in the air, talking around a cigarette, “it’ll pass. It’s burnout, but it’s not permanent.” Eddie trusts her. And she worked as a phone sex operator for a good two years- she gets it. Gets it more than anyone else, Eddie thinks, even more than Bill. 

“You think?” Bill shifts and snuffles, and Eddie pats his hair. 

“I know, Eddie. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, but so is any job.” Beverly is so eloquent, Eddie thinks. She has a way of making him feel better almost instantaneously. And he loves her for it. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I think too.” 

“So as long as you aren’t hurting or feeling like shit because of it...” Bev offers him the cigarette, even though she knows he’ll say no. It’s a routine. Eddie shakes his head with a smile. 

“Yeah.” Eddie licks crumbs from his fingers. “What if I do feel like shit though, some nights?” 

“Everyone feels like shit some nights.” Bev responds, matter-of-fact. Eddie is sure she doesn’t know how much he appreciates it when he talks to him like this. Like he isn’t fragile, isn’t depressed like Bill thinks. “And then you take the next night off. And talk to me.”

“Thank you, Bev.” Eddie puts a hand on her head, affectionate. She smiles up at him, kisses his knee. 

“It’ll all be alright.”

“I think so.” Eddie agrees. And here, with Bill asleep on him and Bev leaning her head on his knee, he thinks it will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope y’all are enjoying this so far! Pls feed my greedy soul with comments <3


	3. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just a fluffy chapter about how much Eddie loves his friends. A lil happiness for you that might not show up much more in this story Oop!

Eddie has more of the pie for breakfast, obviously, and he’s inclined to think that it tastes even better after sitting out on the counter all night. He and Bill have a comfortable routine in the mornings when neither of them have early lectures; Bill gets up first (seven on the dot, for reasons Eddie can’t understand, like “making the most of the day”) and brews the coffee in the French press that sits on the windowsill. Eddie reheats it in the microwave when he gets up, then does the dishes while Bill showers. They eat breakfast together, usually, Eddie with his laptop open and Bill with a book in hand. 

“You’re like an old married couple!” Mike had said upon witnessing the morning scene for the first time. Bill had leaned over and kissed Eddie on the cheek, expression deadpan. They’d all cracked right up a second later, because it’s true. They are like a married couple. 

“Pie?” Eddie asks, cutting himself another sliver of it. Bill’s a god in the kitchen, honestly.

“Wow, that’s healthy.” Bill says, looking up from his crossword. Eddie really can imagine this exact scenario happening sixty years from now. It makes him smile. 

“You’ve got your fruit and you’ve got your carbs, Big Bill. And look, coffee with cream. Dairy.” Bill snorts and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t turn down the slice of pie that Eddie slides across the table to him. 

Eddie is feeling good. His talk with Bev last night, and a good sleep, has done wonders for snapping him out of the funk he was in. He taps his knuckles on the wooden face of the cabinet after thinking that, though. Can’t hurt to knock on wood, hedge your bets a little. Bill glances up but doesn’t comment. 

Most of Eddie’s hypochondriacal tendencies that he harbored as a child have dissolved, little by little over the years (though he still carries wet wipes and gauze and three kinds of painkillers) but he still holds on to these little superstitions. They’re comforting, in the same slightly twisted way that checking endless symptoms on WebMD used to be. 

“So you don’t have anything to do tonight.” Bill comments, fanning out the front page of his newspaper. “Wanna go out?” The thought of that makes Eddie grin- he doesn’t remember the last night where he wasn’t either driving to a motel on the outskirts of the city or crashing apart in Bill’s bed.

“Um, _yes_.” Eddie says, sitting back at the table with his fresh slice of pie and topped-off mug of coffee. “Where?” He knows Bill well enough to know that a night out with him can range between club hopping till three in the morning to camping out in the used book store on 15th for hours. Eddie is happy to do any of that. 

“I was thinking that bar on Main, maybe. I’ve heard good things about their fries.” That strikes Eddie as such a funny, Bill-like thing to say that he grins warmly at him. He thinks in another life, he could be in love with Bill Denbrough. Eddie can see the handsomeness in his face that gets girls gazing at him in the streets, and that coupled with his soft but commanding voice and easy smile makes him lovely. Maybe Eddie could’ve been in love with him. 

“That sounds perfect.” Bill smiles back at him. 

 

The day passes easily enough. Eddie doodles on his notes through his first lecture, whispers to Mike and Ben where they sit next to him about the professors inanely rambling sentences. They get coffee and salads in the dining hall afterwards and sit out on the front steps to eat, despite the snow that blankets the ground and flurries through the air. 

Eddie balances his bowl on his lap, admiring the colorful array of lettuce and carrots, of beans and corn and peas. If there’s anything about this college that he appreciates, it’s the well-stocked salad bar at the far left of the cafeteria. 

“Listen to this, man.” Mike is saying to Ben, mouth half-full. “Kristen McEverett ran into me in the hall this morning, right? She’s got all her books in her arms, cute messy bun, the works-I don’t know!” He says indignantly as Ben snorts at him. “She’s cute. Anyways, I turn the corner and, wham, we collide, y’know. So I’m helping her pick up her stuff, and then, guys, she gives me this smile and says “thank you so much, Mike.” He adopts a sweet, sort of breathy voice that makes Eddie hack on a piece of lettuce as he giggles. 

“Dude, that means nothing.” Ben says, laughing. “She’s literally just being a polite human.”

“No, I swear, there was something there!”

“Then you should go for it, Mike.” Eddie says, tugging the sleeves of his winter coat down further. Mike grins and claps him on the back. 

“Look, someone believes in me. Thanks Eddie- maybe I will!” Ben rolls his eyes as he takes a slug of coffee. 

“Don’t come crying when you get rejected.” Mike gasps with faux-hurt and Eddie laughs yet again, thinking of how happy he is to have them. 

Lecture number two, in philosophy, actually turns out to be interesting, and Eddie spends it scribbling down notes. When it ends, he waits for Bev in the building’s lobby like always, bouncing on his heels to stay warm. The heating in the lobby craps out like clockwork, every December. Eddie’s come to expect it. 

Bev comes bounding in a moment later, short red hair bouncing about her cheekbones. She’s wearing a lovely, albeit slightly inappropriate for the weather, dress- white and short, ending in flapper-style tassels midway down her thighs. Eddie bends to admire the beading, and she gives him a little twirl that Eddie can see gets the attention of a group of guys walking by. Beverly does that, without even noticing. Eddie, short and plain with his brown hair and brown eyes, never catches anyone’s eye. At least not anyone who isn’t looking to pay for him. He doesn’t have the time to spend on that thought, though, because Bev is pulling at his hand until he breaks into a light jog behind her and out through the doors. There’s nowhere they need to be- Bev is just a fountain of energy. 

“How was your last class?” Eddie asks, embarrassingly out of breath as they slow in the courtyard. Bev’s cheeks are already pinking from the cold, making her freckles stand out. 

“Eh, boring. Just poli sci.” Bev is taking classes for a masters in design, and doesn’t have the time of day for the other required courses. Eddie is both admiring and jealous of her sure-footed belief in what she wants to do. “What about you?” 

“It was cool. Psych.” They’re ducking into Bev’s dorm building by now. There was never a discussion of where they were going, but Eddie feels sure enough that they’ll find the others lounging out on Bev’s kitchen counters. Bev waves to a girl going by, who Eddie recognizes, with a snort, as Kristen McEverett. 

Bev is chatting amicably with those they pass, and it strikes Eddie how different she is from when he met her. How much more comfortable in her own skin, and with other people. He feels a swell of affection for her as she unlocks her door. 

Like he’d expected, Bill, Ben, and Stan are in the kitchen, helping themselves to juice from Bev’s fridge. They’re passing the carton around, drinking straight from the opening, and Eddie can’t help but cringe thinking about how unsanitary that is. 

“Where’s Mike?” He asks after dropping his stuff at Bev’s kitchen table. 

“He’s taking some girl to coffee.” Stan says, capping the juice. 

“Oh my god, is it Kristen McEverett?” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows at Ben. 

“That rings a bell.” Bill says, and Eddie whoops a little. Ben rolls his eyes good naturedly

“You were right, Eddie. Is that what you want to hear?” Eddie nods, triumphant. 

“Nice, Mike!” Bev exclaims. “She’s great. And hot.” 

“Gay.” Eddie says, nudging her, and they all burst into laughter. 

“Says you, Mr. I-take-dicks-for-a-living!” Bev retaliates, which has them rolling. Eddie has never had an issue with his friends saying things like that about him. Because, hey, it’s true. 

When the laughter subsides, Stan wiping his eyes, Bill announces the plan to go to the Main Street bar for Eddie’s Night Off. (“Night off from taking dicks.” Bev adds, which sets them all off again.) They decide to go back to their respective dorms and change (Eddie, who lives in oversized sweatshirts and leggings, is raring for a night to dress up, at least a little) and meet at the subway station out in front of the campus. 

Half an hour later, just as the winter sun has begun going down, Eddie and Bill are walking through the snow to the subway. Eddie’s wearing his favorite step-up-from-casual outfit, a plaid button down tucked into nicely-fitted dark jeans. Bill’s got on a blazer, but Eddie is too small in the chest and shoulders to pull one off. The others are waiting when they arrive, bouncing to keep the cold at bay. It isn’t a long wait for the subway, though, and soon they’re off, roaring into the city. Eddie can’t remember the last time he felt so light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are what I live for just sayin


	4. Beverly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Bev’s POV, just so y’all know! I think I’m gonna have it bounce around some more in the future.

We all worry about Eddie, of course. We have since he put up that ad online, the one where he’s smiling sweetly with glossy lips and short-shorts, sitting on the counter in my dorm. We never would’ve tried to stop him, because, well, Eddie is an adult and Eddie can care for himself, as much as we all want to do it for him. But since then, there’s been some change in him, one that Bill and I whisper about in the kitchen while he sleeps in the next room. And, so, we’ve talked about trying to get him to quit. I know Bill has said things to him about it. I never have, probably never will, because I think it makes Eddie feel worse than anything else when we tell him that maybe what he’s doing is hurting him. And I understand that, too. That sort of pride that hangs in doing the kind of work that nobody talks about. 

So I guess that puts me at a stalemate then, watching him struggle without telling him he should stop. But really, I don’t think it’s the job. I don’t think it’s the sex with strangers. I think Eddie can handle that, or he wouldn’t be doing that. I don’t think it’s anything external at all. 

I think, and Bill thinks, that it’s something coming from inside him, from his head. I think he’s going through the same thing that I did on and off from seventh grade on that pushed my school counselor into calling my parents and telling them that she thought “Beverly was having some issues with depression”. Ms. Brown got me a hell of an ass-whooping for that, as good as her intentions were. 

Anyways, with Eddie, I don’t know how to bring it up. I don’t think there’s a way to do it without upsetting him. I know Bill has tried, unsuccessfully. More often than not, it feels like the two of us have some sort of Eddie Kaspbrak Concern Coalition going on covertly, what with all our nervous texts back and forth and the whispered conversations where we search up the costs and side effects of Prozac and Zoloft. 

Tonight, though, I’m doing my best to not think about antidepressants and WebMD symptoms of depressive behavior, because we’re going out, and Eddie is bouncing happily in the subway seat that we’re squished into together. Bill is leaning over us, supporting himself in the jolting car with the rungs that hang from the ceiling to hold onto. We keep making eye contact and sort of grinning at each other, because we feel good about helping Eddie feel good, and the night in general feels nice and alive and bright. Ben and Stan are here too, sitting on either side of Eddie and I. We’re chattering, about things that don’t matter, like classes and grades and how maybe Mike is getting laid right now by that cute preppy brunette. 

Bill and I have talked to the others, like we do about everything. That night when Eddie went crying into the hallway, I sat with Ben and Stan and Mike and we made nervous eye contact until Stan started sniffling with worry and I started saying, over and over again, that we couldn’t bring this up to Eddie, that we had to pretend, for him, that everything was alright. So we haven’t talked about it since, as a group. And tonight it barely feels like it’s a tangible cloud that we’re skirting around. 

It’s good. He seems happy, and that makes me happy. I wrap my arm around his thin waist and squeeze him into a hug, for no reason at all. He turns to me, a smile on his face, and plants a kiss on his cheek. 

“I love you, Bev.” He says sweetly, the affection that overflows from his little frame in a way that draws people to him (you should see it, the way he catches people’s attention with that brilliant smile of his) bubbling over and making me warm. 

“I love you, Eddie-baby.” 

 

The bar Bill picked out is cute, string lights hanging over the counter and an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. I take the arm Stan offers me as we walk in, giggling, and we do the whole bit of him holding the door and tipping a pretend hat, and me gasping and waving a pretend fan. 

“What a gentleman!” I say, and we all laugh. We sit at the bar (I laugh at Eddie, who topped out at 5’5, as he works to scramble onto the stool) and I call over the counter for a round of shots. 

The bartender turns, and I see his face change from a polite-to-a-customer smile to a real grin when we meet eyes. Somehow it doesn’t seem sleazy, though he’s clearly taking me in- my short red hair, my brighter red lips, my fringed dress. And he isn’t bad looking himself, tall and gangly with wild dark hair and thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He looks a little addict-y, in the way that’s sort of messy-hot. Like he smokes a lot. 

“Vodka?” He asks, and his voice, a smoker’s rasp that I hear my own in, confirms my suspicion. 

“Yeah, please.” I feel myself slipping into what Eddie has coined “Bev’s Sex Pistols voice”: an octave lower and ten times more sultry than my usual timbre. I let it - after all, the bartender looks fun to flirt with. Stan, next to me, rolls his eyes around when he picks up on what I’m doing and the bartender has turned his back to get the tray of shots. I kick his shin under the counter. 

The bartender turns back and sets a shot in front of me. 

“I’m Richie.” He says, brows raised on his freckled face. 

“Okay.” I say, noncommittal, as I lift the shot to my lips. Head back, swallow the heat. I set the shot glass back on the counter with a clink and smile toothily at him. 

“Are you gonna tell me your name, or should I guess?” He asks, and, well, I guess we’re both playing this game. I sigh through my nose, pretend-annoyed, and flick a strand of hair back from my face. I’m vaguely aware of the boys snorting at me, and ignore them. They won’t be laughing when I get them all free drinks all night. 

“Beverly.” I say, drawing out the syllables. “Bev.” 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Beverly.” Ben snorts so loudly that we both turn to him. Eddie is laughing, silently, and gives me a thumbs-up. “Can I get something else for your friends here?” The bartender smiles easily, and I appreciate that.

Appreciate it enough to follow him to the bathroom later when he flicks his wrist, ignoring the whoops of my friends as I walk past them with my head up


	5. Beverly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still in Bev’s POV! I really hope you guys are liking this <3

“I’m not going to text him.” I tell Eddie, again. He’s sitting at my side on his dorm couch, feet in fuzzy socks up on the coffee table. I skipped my afternoon lecture to drop by room 176B with a tin of shortbread that my over-enthusiastic roommate whipped up while I was still asleep this morning. Eddie’s balancing the tin on his stomach, fishing out a cookie every so often. 

“Why the fuck not, Bev! He was cute, and he liked you.” I dislodge my left hand from where it’s trapped between us, so I can use it to talk. Both Eddie and I are like that, expressive with our gestures to the point of being reliant on them. I throw my hand into the air in front of his face. 

“He didn’t, though, Edward.” I say, ignoring his protest at my use of his full name. “I know that type of guy. Yeah, he was charming, but he isn’t looking for anything beyond sex.” Eddie pouts, looking put out on my behalf. 

He, _Richie_ , was actually the sweetest guy I’ve ever gone to a bar bathroom with. The sex was pretty great in itself (you know that type of guy, the one with the thin chest and huge hands that do nice things while he talks in a low, scratchy voice that’s somehow hotter than anything else), but then, afterwards, as I was slipping my dress back on and he was smoking perched on the edge of the sink, we talked. He was easy to talk to, asked all the right questions that made me feel heard and cared for by a complete stranger. (“I mean, I don’t know if I’d still call you a stranger.” He’d quipped, smiling devilishly, when I voiced that thought to him. I’d rolled my eyes and grinned back.) We were in there for another half hour, just talking. His eyes, big behind the glasses and so many shades of brown they made my head spin, seemed to draw admissions from me like a magnet. He asked about my friends and I told him, like my lips were a dam that had broken, most everything. How we’d gone out because Eddie (though I didn’t use his name), well, we thought he was depressed, and he had this job, see, and he was finally taking a break from it but, god, that didn’t mean I’d stop worrying about him. I talked until I was spent, Richie looking at me like he’d heard and held on to every word 

“I’m sorry,” I’d said, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know where that came from.” 

“It’s okay.” He’d said in that gravelly voice. “Your friend is lucky to have someone like you.” My eyes sparked hot at that, and I’d kissed him. 

So, yes, he was charming. He was sweet, and it was unfair of me to act like he was just in it for my body when he’d sat for thirty minutes and listened to me rant and wring my hands. But, the thing was, I hadn’t gotten his number, and that embarrassed me more than it should. (Looking back, i should have just asked him for it. But I didn’t, for whatever reason, and he didn’t offer it.) So, in terms of my pride, it was easier to pretend to Eddie that the bartender was a bit of a douche. 

“Damn.” Eddie whines, clearly disappointed for me. “He seemed nice.” I shrug, thinking about Richie’s eyes and wishing I wasn’t. 

 

When Bill gets home we sit around watching Real Housewives and demolishing the last of the cookies until Eddie has to leave for his 5pm class. We wave him out the door with encouragements for getting through the required calculus course, then sink back into the couch in a pile. I have my head on Bill’s broad-but-slim shoulder, and his arm is thrown over my waist. Our legs are tangled, and he’s warm and I snuggle into it. I can see in Bill’s eyes that he’s worried, that there’s something he needs to say to me. My stomach twists nervously, and I know that when he speaks he’ll be stuttering. Is that something you can see in the eyes? With Bill, I think I can. 

(I think I used to be in love with Bill Denbrough. He’s easy to be in love with, with his slow drawl and clever words and way of looking at you that holds so much care. I was maybe in love with him, but it was the kind of love that let itself live out under the surface, quietly and easily and without much protest when Bill would bring a girl to a party or Eddie would call and laugh about how there was a boy with facial hair in BIll’s bedroom. And love like that doesn’t sustain, fizzles out after a while without much fanfare and is replaced by deep, soft affection. I take his hand.)

“What is it?” I ask, scared to hear his answer. Bill looks tired, and I feel a stab of shame for not having noticed it earlier. His face is thin, and when he’s stressed he holds tension visibly in his jaw. I put my hand on it. He’s cold, and suddenly I want to hold him and never let go. 

“I didn’t r-r-realize how much w-we n-need Eddie’s income.” He stammers out, face pale and peaked. My heart drops. (Bill comes from a poor family. A poor family that was never all that supportive of him. He’s made it here, to college, by sheer will, by working two jobs, by cutting corners and buying potatoes and rice in bulk and recycling cans for nickels and taking loans.) “N-n-normally,” his stutter is so bad that it’s almost hard to listen to, “We split eh-everything, yknow, the b-b-bills and shit and I can do that, b-but we have to pay for room and b-b-board by tomorrow and I-I-” He cuts himself off, drops his head miserably to mine. 

“Oh, Bill, fuck. I can cover it. Of course I can.” I’m not rolling in it, far from it, but I’m lucky enough to have an aunt who saved for college for me and I don’t have to worry about making ends meet in the way Bill does. (I feel so shitty about it, about not thinking about it until he brought it up. I should’ve been helping. I should’ve noticed how he swallowed hard when we split the bar tab. I should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.)

“I c-can’t ask you to d-do that.” And he’s proud, too proud for his own good. Maybe that’s his fatal flaw, how he gives and gives and gives but can’t accept help. 

“You didn’t ask.” I say, squeezing his hand. “I’ve got you until Eddie gets back on his feet. _We’ve_ got you.” Bill tenses under me. 

“Don’t t-t-tell them.” I sit up a little so I can look back at him. 

“What? They would want to help, Bill. Seriously.” He looks a little bit like he’s going to cry, which means I have to swallow my own tears. 

“I don want th-them to know.” He almost whispers. And it’s only then that I realize that maybe he’s never told any of the others about his family and his struggle and his scraping. Maybe he hasn’t even told Eddie. 

So, so proud. What do you do with an endlessly proud, endlessly giving, endlessly stoic boy? What do you do to help him?

You whisper _okay_ , because he really looks like he’s going to cry, and if he does that you don’t know how you’d keep it together. You hug him for several long moments before getting up and taking his hand and walking him all the way to the student center in the next building, where you pay the month’s room fee. You don’t make a deal of it. You don’t catch his eye. That’s what I do. And when we return to his room he finally looks at me, eyes huge and glassy and more grateful than I’ve ever seen on a person. 

“Thank you.” He says, and I hug him again. 

“Course.” I say as I put two twenties in his back pocket. He notices, of course, but pretends not to for the both of us and only squeezes me tighter. 

We’re back on the couch, like we never left, when Eddie comes in the door. He’s chattering about math class, about how horrible and difficult it was, and I see the facade Bill puts on for him clearer than I ever have. He’s smiling and joking with Eddie, gets up to make him a cup of tea with the two bills just visible in his back pocket. It’s how Bill protects Eddie, I realize. He pretends everything is alright, like it’ll all always be alright. It’s like there isn’t enough room in this dorm for them both to struggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all know I seriously live for comments ,,,


	6. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After two full months I am ,,, BACK!! So so sorry about the hiatus things have been absolutely wild but! I hope to get back into a routine of writing. This is admittedly a bit of a filler chapter so I’m also posting the next one rn!! Pleaseee lemme know ur thoughts!

“I’m going back to work tomorrow.” Eddie is sitting on the counter in Stan’s dorm, and there’s a Counting Crows CD playing because Stan still has his extensive collection (he never really moved past that to keeping his music digitally). 

“How do you feel about that?” It’s a lot like Stan, Eddie thinks, to answer someone with a question like that. Maybe he’d make a good therapist someday. 

“Good, I think. Ready.” Eddie swings his legs, knocking his heels into the cabinets below the counter. Stan nods, musing. 

“You’ll be safe?” He asks, sweetly concerned, and Eddie smiles at him. 

“You know I am, Stanley.”

“Good.” Stan says, methodically wiping down the stovetop with a folded paper towel. He looks like he might go to say something else, so, before it turns into the horribly awkward birds/bees/STI talk, Eddie interjects. 

“Turns out Bev’s bartender was a douche.” Eddie, in his limited interaction with the dark-haired man, had managed to surmise a couple of things: one, that he probably smokes a lot of pot. Two, that he was unfortunately but undeniably hot, if a somewhat greasy way. Neither of those observations are either here nor there, especially since Eddie will most likely never see the bartender- Richie, if he’s remembering correctly- again. Especially now that he’s been confirmed-

“A douche?” Stan repeats. “But he gave us free drinks! He seemed so promising, damn.”

“He gave us free drinks cause he was boning our friend.”

“You know I hate the term ‘boning’, Eddie.” This makes Eddie giggle.

“What would you prefer? Banging? Nailing?” Stan wrinkles his nose and swats Eddie with the duster he’s somehow acquired. 

“I’d prefer if you shut up.” 

“But, Stanley, you love me.”

“Unfortunately, that is true.” Eddie rolls his eyes (he’s been told he has a particularly scathing eye roll, and is somewhat proud of that) and slides off the counter to pour himself another mug of coffee. Decaf, of course, because Stan would never brew a pot of regular after noon for fear of impacting everyone’s sleep schedule. “Do you already have a client lined up?” Stan asks, keeping his voice mild and unaffected in the way is always is when he talks to Eddie about this. It’s not because he’s judgmental or even particularly uncomfortable with it, but more of an overcompensating way of trying to normalize it, Eddie thinks. He appreciates that, stilted as it may sometimes be. 

“Uh huh.” He responds between sips of coffee. “I think his name is Luke. He’s 6’1, apparently.” Eddie focuses a lot of his attention on height for being so short (or because of that). 

“Damn.” Stan whistles, which strikes Eddie as funny enough to snort at. He’s glad for the laugh, because thinking about this is giving him a small pit of nerves in his stomach. It’s been long enough that it feels made new again, like something he isn’t used to and hasn’t been doing consistently for the past year. All of it makes him feel like a kid transferring schools in the middle of the year. Shaky and on edge. 

He’ll be alright though. After all, he started this once before. He can do it again. 

 

As it happens, Eddie ends up at the same motel where he met Thomas a week and a bit ago. It’s an almost frightening minute of deja-vu, the way he’s leaning against the hood of his car in the nearly-deserted parking lot once again. This time, though, he’s a bit better dressed for the weather in a thick knit pullover of Bill’s (“I swear to God, Eddie, if that comes back to me smelling like lube...”) and sweatpants over snow boots. 

He’s more fidgety than usual as he catches the eye of his client, as they walk to the double doors of the motel and as he feels the freezing metal of the handles on his palms. As they take the elevator upstairs and the shifty-eyed client slides the key card into the slot. As he’s crying out with the feeling of it and falls back into the rhythm that his thighs and hands seem to have filed under muscle memory. 

It ends and Eddie arrives home without incident, to Bill waiting in the window like a worried lover. The sight of him, a sitting silhouette with his knees drawn up to his chest and a book in his hand, is so sweet and caring that it makes Eddie’s heart expand in his chest until it’s suffocating. The first thing he does when he unlocks the door is run through the kitchen to Bill and throw his arms around him. 

“Good?” Bill asks him, a crease in his forehead. Eddie watches it smooth itself out as he nods, smiling, and tucks his face back into Bill’s shoulder. 

Eddie puts the money on the counter, a wad of twenties that works out to almost two-fifty, and Bill gives him a toothy, sparkling-eyed smile. Eddie returns it and doesn’t tell Bill he loves him even though he could. The exchange of smiles is enough, their own language that’s warmer and sweeter on a tongue than any words could be. 

Eddie, tuckered out and relaxed, falls almost instantly into sleep when his shower-damp hair hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [blinking arrow pointing at my head]: slut 4 comments


	7. Eddie

“Luh-look, I think you’d better g-get out of here.” Eddie starts awake to this, to the shocking, unusual sound of Bill’s angry voice, raised and deeper than normal. Mind racing with possibilities and still half-dazed, Eddie scrambles out of bed and for his pajama pants, shed in the night to the floor. Burglar? Looking to ransack the meager pickings of their kitchen and thrift-store decor? Ex-flame? Here for old CD mixes and Bill’s blood? Police? (Had Bill and Bev been smoking weed in here recently?) Student advisor? Parents?

That idea takes hold of Eddie, floods him with a cold kind of horror. Both he and Bill had awfully rough upbringings, the kind that resulted in fleeing home the moment of their eighteenth birthdays, and the idea of seeing his overbearing, emotionally manipulative, smothering mother tightens Eddie’s chest. Jesus. Whoever it is at the door, please let them go away. Please let Bill get them out. 

Whoever it is is talking now, voice too soft for Eddie to make out the words. 

“That’s not what I h-heard.” Bill is saying, voice surprisingly steady. Nothing too frightening, then, Eddie surmises hopefully. He’s creeping down the hallway at this point, trying to catch a glimpse of the visitor before he bursts into sight in the living room. 

And then he does. At this angle, the person at the door is almost entirely hidden by Bill, but Eddie can see the top of his head - unkempt black hair in loose curls. Oh, shit. 

Eddie springs out from the hallway, dashing across the living room to reinforce Bill at the door. Both pairs of eyes land on him, and he realizes he’s wearing a too-small, rainbow printed tank top that was a gift from Bev, and a pair of Stan’s pajama pants pooling around his ankles. Well. What can Eddie do now. 

“Richie?” Turning to Bill- “The bartender?” His voice is incredulous and icy. “Why the hell are you here? How the hell are you here?” Bill, to Eddie’s dismay, is holding him back from the man in the doorway with an outstretched arm. He looks frazzled and tired, like the knock on the door woke him from a not-very-restful sleep. Richie is shifting with embarrassment in the hall, hands shoved in the pockets of his torn black jeans and glasses smeared with drying water that might’ve once been snow. He’s inappropriately dressed for the weather, and shivering. Eddie glares at him. 

“You guys, I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.” Richie sounds nearly pleading, brows knitted on his wrinkled forehead. “Bev and I- we-” 

“Don’t even say her name!” Eddie half-shouts, a bit dramatically perhaps. A look of such confusion passes over Richie’s face that it makes Eddie pause. 

“What?” He removes his glasses like he has a headache, screwing up his suddenly-normal-sized eyes. 

“You asshole.” Eddie says, fury built up by Richie’s playing-dumb act. “Pretending like you don’t know.” Bill holds up a hand, attempting to quell Eddie’s pre-coffee rage. Richie looks entirely helpless, hands up like he’s trying not to be shot. Eddie, quelled unhappily, goes silent. The three of them look at each other. Richie’s mouth is moving silently, like a fish. Dumbass, Eddie thinks. No wonder Bev never wants to talk to him again. 

“H-how’d you even find us?” Bill asks, voice sharp but relatively non-hostile. He’s always been better at civilized confrontation than Eddie. 

“Bev-” a worried glance over at Eddie “-told me where you all went to school.” 

“So you decided to come stalk her?” Eddie interjects hotly. Bill cuts him a look. 

“No! What? Listen, I have no idea what-” Richie takes a breath, puts his glasses back on, and begins on a different train of speech. “Okay. I asked for her room at the registry desk, up front, y’know? I went up and there was, uh, no one there. So I asked for yours.” He inclines his head at Bill. “Thought you might know where she was at.” 

“Oh my god, you can’t take a hint?” Eddie begins, crossing his arms.

“They just g-give out room numbers?” Bill adds in, brows raised. “Jesus.”

“I don’t know what you two think I did, but it’s not fucking true.” Richie says, still with that pleading hint in his voice that might make Eddie feel bad for him under any other circumstance. 

“She’s our best friend, asshole. We aren’t telling you where she is.” He says, eyes narrowed, then reaches out to slam the door in Richie’s face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm ,,,,, confused boyos


End file.
